


The Key

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Fix-It, Holidays, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sweet Ending, Undecided Relationship(s), finally at long last sex, obstacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after the tarmac scene, John gives his key to 221B Baker Street back to Sherlock, deciding he needs a clean start -- but there's too much left unresolved for that to easily happen. </p>
<p>(I wrote this purely for the feels, wondering what would happen if John walked away after all the trauma of S3... You know they can't stay apart, but what might happen in between?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock held the key in his hand, stunned, unable to move as he watched John walk away and disappear around the corner. He didn’t want the key, didn’t want John to vanish from view, didn’t want to replay the conversation they just had, but his mind had captured every last detail.

They had been in a cab returning from the ransacked apartment of a recent murder victim. It was unclear what, if anything, had been taken, the motive still murky. Sherlock was turning this puzzle over in his mind when John unexpectedly broke the silence.

“The divorce is finalized.”

Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to shift his stream of thought.

“I’m assuming I can thank Mycroft for expediting the process,” John muttered, keeping his eyes trained out the window and away from Sherlock.

Sherlock said nothing. Mary had disappeared nearly six months ago, mere days after he’d returned from his unexpectedly brief exile. _Death sentence,_ another dark part of his brain whispered in correction.

He didn’t trust Mary, AGRA, whoever she was, not after she point-blank shot him. So he’d followed the old adage: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer… He’d maneuvered Mary back into John’s life to monitor her while he tried to figure out her game, entrusting Mycroft to finish what he could not once he boarded that plane.

Only she had slipped away after his return, melting back into the depths of some covert network that was only beginning to register with MI6 or any other quasi-legal agency. He should have anticipated her disappearance, but he’d been too shocked by his sudden reprieve to immediately act. _Remember how you wept like a child in the shower that night you knew you’d live?_ the whisper reminded him.

Mycroft had swiftly dispatched him on several futile missions to track Mary down, but they only resulted in dead ends. Mary, and maybe Moriarty, were still out there, silent for now, biding their time. It made Sherlock uneasy, but he was not anxious to repeat the two years he had spent living and thinking like an animal, relentlessly hunting, cutting off one head only to have another reappear elsewhere. Others could take over the search until a better opportunity presented itself.

He was relieved that John was officially free of Mary, but he couldn’t think of anything to say that John would want to hear right now. In fact, it had gotten increasingly difficult to find anything they could safely discuss.

They did not talk about Mary, or the baby, or Magnussen, or those last few moments on the tarmac when he had come so very close to revealing certain deeply held things… _You should have told him._

Well. There was no point to it now, was there? The moment had passed, and John was still recovering from a series of unforgivable acts. The time wasn’t right. It was never quite right.

Still, somehow, he and John had managed to stumble back to common ground that was centered around the Work, avoiding difficult topics, living in separate flats. But it wasn’t the same; he could feel that they were gradually drifting apart. Sherlock didn’t know how to stop the erosion. Perhaps, with the divorce, John would consider moving back, and things could eventually settle back to what they once had been, and maybe even move forward.

At that moment the cab pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock distractedly paid the driver, half watching John as he stood on the pavement gazing at the black door, the brass knocker slightly askew.

Sherlock slipped his wallet back into his pocket, turned to face John, a question forming on his lips. That’s when he saw the metal object in John’s hand.

“Here. Take this.” John held out his key to 221B.

Sherlock stared at it dumbly.

“I think you should have it,” John said, his hand still outstretched.

“But -- what for?”

“You should have it,” John repeated. “For a spare.”

“I don’t need a spare,” Sherlock’s face paled. “It’s yours.”

Sherlock saw a muscle in John’s jaw twitch, a momentary waver that soon hardened into resolve. “I think,” John said, “I shouldn’t keep it anymore. Please.”

Sherlock’s hand rose unwillingly, and John dropped the key into his palm. “I just… I can’t keep it,” he said, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. He took a breath. “I should go. Text me if there’s anything I can do for the case.” John turned and walked away briskly, his back straight, not looking back.

Sherlock closed his fingers around the warm metal, a vain effort to retain the last of the heat it held from John’s hands. The door in front of his eyes began to blur, something in his chest splintering.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock did not text John. Instead, he spent several days curled on the sofa in his dressing gown, morose, unmotivated. He let the case languish, refused to return calls until Greg Lestrade stopped by in person to check on him.

“You look like hell,” Greg said after Sherlock reluctantly admitted him into the sitting room.

Sherlock flopped into his chair. “I’ve been ill,” he lied.

Greg looked at him steadily. “Why don’t you come to my office at 4 o’clock?” he suggested. “I’ve got some files for you. Do you good to get some fresh air.”

Sherlock nodded noncommittally, but showed up as requested, showered and shaved. Greg led him to a conference room, the table covered with papers and evidence photos. Sherlock scanned the contents and soon began reorganizing them to his satisfaction.

“Donovan won’t like you moving things,” Greg cautioned.

“She,” Sherlock replied, sweeping up a sheaf of papers, “can fuck off.”

“Right,” Greg sighed, turning to leave. “I figured as much. But nothing leaves this room, understood?” He jabbed his pen in emphasis.

Sherlock ignored him, preoccupied with structuring an impromptu case wall on the tabletop. Several minutes later he heard the door open again, oblivious to the interruption until he felt a hand brush past his arm. It was John, leaning over to pick up a photo of the victim.

“Nasty head wound,” John finally commented before replacing the picture. “Did they find the weapon?”

Sherlock wordlessly picked up another photo and handed it to him.

“Oh,” John said, “A candlestick. Just like Cluedo.” He held the photo a moment longer, absently bending the corner back and forth with a finger before tossing it back on the table. “Can I help?”

“No.” Sherlock still avoided making eye contact. “Why are you here?”

John stilled, and Sherlock could feel his sudden tension.

“Greg asked me to come by. He said you’d been ill, might need some help.”

“I’m fine now,” Sherlock said tersely.

John gripped the back of a chair, letting out a short huff. “This is about the other day, isn’t it?”

Sherlock remained silent, switched a map with a record of phone calls.

“Look, I…” John faltered. “I should have said something before. I’ve been thinking… I just need a clean start, and not dwell on the past.”

Sherlock stopped moving, waiting.

“I can’t keep trying to be in two places,” John finally said.

Sherlock couldn’t look at him, dread filling his stomach.

John’s hands came to rest on the chair again, a long silence filling the room. “The past few years, every time I thought --” his words choked off. He shook his head, unable to continue for several moments. “I need to sort out some things. Do you understand?”

 _No,_ Sherlock thought, staring at the photo of the head wound again. _I don’t._

“It’s better this way,” John finished, his tone flat.

Sherlock finally looked up, about to offer a protest when John’s phone buzzed. He pulled the phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen. “I have to go,” he said. He met Sherlock’s eyes, his expression tightly controlled. “I’m sorry.” He lingered an extra moment, then left again, the door closing with a soft click.

**********

Sherlock had not meant to come to John’s flat. He’d merely gone out for a walk, hoping the motion would free his mind, help it make connections on the case he just wasn’t seeing yet. Two days had passed since he and John had last spoken, 48 hours of throwing himself into work to distract himself from the dull ache that had gnawed a hole under his sternum. He was sleeping poorly, his thoughts dulled. So he walked until it grew dark, and when he looked up he was on the street where John lived.

He’d been to the flat only a few times, could remember with clarity the wallpaper pattern, the lamps, the brand of television, the small pictures hanging on the wall. The first time he had visited, Mary had chatted brightly as she pressed a cup of tea into his hand and he had smiled wanly, still trying to get his bearings in the face of such domesticity.

The next few times had been short visits to drop something off. He never accepted invitations to stay, always begged off with an excuse. He stopped by once after Mary’s disappearance, a bottle of whiskey on the table, few words exchanged as he and John drank, each sinking into a dark place, and they parted with a handshake that felt far too formal for the storms raging in their heads.

Sherlock now looked up at the window, the blinds drawn, a light on. What was John doing? What would happen if he were to go to the steps, press the doorbell, stand in that room with him again? He watched the window, half lost in thought when a silhouette passed in front of the shade. _John._

He inhaled, working up the courage to cross the street, stopping short when a second shadow moved into view. Someone else was already there. Sherlock stared, immobile, discerning that the visitor was tall, wide-shouldered, male. He tore his eyes away, began walking hastily back the way he’d come. _Idiot,_ he chided himself. _Stupid to have come this way._

Later, as climbed the stairs to his own flat, he suddenly felt exhausted. He went to the kitchen, drank a glass of water, stood far too long listening to the water drip monotonously into the sink, measuring out long seconds of passing time.

He finally turned and walked to his bedroom where he pulled off his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a chair. John always hated it when he did that, not taking proper care of his things. He undid his cuffs and worked down the row of buttons, peeled the shirt from his arms and dropped it onto the chair, the fabric coiling in a heap on top of the jacket.

He stood in the dark, his eye caught by his pale reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He slowed, looking at himself impassively. Though his face belied his true age, he was not a young man anymore. He certainly felt older than his years. He ran a hand across the stubble on his jaw, down his neck, his fingers trailing further down his chest to rest atop the bullet wound. Pain, briefly remembered, flashed through his consciousness. He traced the tight skin with his fingertips, the nerves slightly deadened beneath the scar tissue. He turned slightly, catching a glimpse of ropy scars criss-crossing his back, remembering the shackles, his desperate deductions to stop the torture.

Sherlock resurfaced to the present. He looked away from the mirror, tired of his own reflection. He knew with a sinking certainty who the visitor was in John’s flat, had recognized the height and stance. It was Major James Sholto.


	3. Chapter 3

They looked at ease, sitting across the table from each other, Sholto talking, John listening attentively, nodding or taking an occasional sip of beer before asking another question or offering some sort of thoughtful reply. They were seated outside, taking advantage of the early spring warmth, and Sherlock watched, once again stationed across the street.

Sherlock didn’t know what they were discussing, but as he carefully observed their interaction, he noted Sholto looked more relaxed in civilian clothes but still maintained an ever-present alertness in his posture.

He wasn’t particularly proud of having followed John to the restaurant where he met Sholto, wasn’t pleased that he felt compelled to furtively track them like two suspects. But curiosity had won out, the need to know more about this visit overriding common sense.

Perhaps Sholto was in town for business and had contacted John to catch up. The timing was odd, though, with the divorce, the returning of the key…

Sherlock glanced at his watch. He should go. He turned, deciding he’d seen enough. John had made it clear he had his own life to live, and he had a case to solve. _You should have told him._

**********

The text came a few hours later when Sherlock was in the lab at St. Bart’s. Molly stood nearby, helping him run a few samples, fidgeting with her gloves.

It was a note from John that simply read: _I've left town for a few days to visit a friend. May be hard to reach._

Sherlock held the phone without moving, could feel Molly’s eyes on him.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

 _No._ “Yes. It’s nothing important.” He placed the phone back in his pocket, suddenly not knowing what to do next.

“Do you want me to run the rest of these?” Molly asked, indicating a tray of samples.

“No. Never mind.” He slowly stood up. “I just remembered….” He left the lab without finishing the sentence. He went outside, needing air. James Sholto had a place in the country, remote. _May be hard to reach._

Sherlock started walking, blindly turning into the first shop to buy a pack of cigarettes. He hesitated. He’d almost managed to quit. _Fuck it,_ he thought while paying for a pack, then fumbling outside with the lighter in his eagerness to inhale the first lungful of nicotine. He blew out a long stream of smoke. _Fuck it._

As he slipped the lighter and cigarettes into his pocket, his fingers brushed against something cold and hard. He dug at it with his fingers, pulled out the key John had handed him days ago.

He held it for a moment, coming to a decision. He returned to the shop, asked for a piece of paper and pen. He scratched a note onto the paper, then placed the key atop the paper and folded it into a makeshift envelope.

He walked quickly, taking impatient drags off the cigarette, crushing the butt under his heel when he finished. He walked until he came to John’s flat. He went up the steps to the door, shoved the square of paper through the letter slot before he could change his mind, turned and left quickly.

He went home. He poured a drink. He smoked.


	4. Chapter 4

John breathed in the morning air, savoring how fresh it smelled as he stood on the flagstones of the patio with a cup of hot coffee. It had been good to get away from the city, but he had to return soon, pick up some shifts at the clinic again. He’d already stayed longer than he'd intended.

He glanced at his phone, saw that no new messages had come in. He frowned slightly. Well, service was spotty out this far. He turned when he heard movement behind him, and his face eased into a smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

John watched as James poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table, deftly moving a chair out of the way and arranging the newspaper with his one good arm. He never complained about his circumstances, John noted.

“You’re heading back to London today, then?” James asked.

“Yes, I’d best get back.”

James nodded, running his thumb across the top of his cup. “I’ll miss this coffee you make. I can never get it quite right.”

John smiled. “One of my few talents.”

“Oh, I’d say you’re a great deal more accomplished than you give yourself credit for.” He looked up, smiling, then turned more serious. “It’s been good having you here, John.” He paused, continuing on with difficulty. “I regret… I regret that I didn’t keep in touch with you all those years. I should have.”

John returned his gaze, thinking back to Afghanistan, to Baker Street, to Sherlock and Mary, to guns and bullets and blood and planes, to scars visible and invisible. "It was a difficult time for you," John finally said. "I understand."

James nodded again, looked down into his cup. “I know you’ve had your share of troubles as well.”

John lowered his head, finding the simple acknowledgment of his own adversities to be unexpectedly moving. He crossed to the table, sat down across from James, and poured himself more coffee. He could catch a later train.

**********

Later that day, John pushed open the door to his flat and dropped his bag onto a nearby chair, sending a swirl of dust motes into the evening light. _Dust is elegant,_ Sherlock’s voice replayed in his head. John sneezed. It was also an irritant.

He leaned over to pick up the odd assortment of mail that had accumulated on the floor. He sifted through it, walking toward the kitchen, his eyes landing on a note laying on the table. It was from his landlord.

_Dr. Watson -- Tried to reach you by phone. I let the plumber in to fix the leaky sink. Should be working now._

John crumpled up the note, tossed it into the bin, grabbed the kettle. As he stood waiting for the water to boil, he held his phone, sent a quick text to Sholto. He then hesitated, his thumb hovering over the last message he’d sent to Sherlock saying he’d be out of town. Sherlock had never replied. After a moment, John turned off the phone and looked around the quiet flat, feeling torn by three very different forces. James. Mary. Sherlock.

The kettle came to a boil and he focused his attention on the tea. He never saw the square piece of folded paper that had been accidentally kicked far under the sofa by the plumber. It remained there, undisturbed, gathering more dust.


	5. Chapter 5

Month after month rolled by and John found himself consumed by work at the clinic. It was mundane, but he needed the money. He knew the flat was an expense he really couldn’t afford, but he valued the solitude. It was, perhaps, a foolish luxury since he now often spent weekends away.

He saw James quite regularly, enjoying his quiet company and shared history and the peace of the countryside. He did not see Sherlock, hadn’t heard from him for ages. He saw occasional mentions of his name in the news, although he’d stopped reading the paper every day and rarely watched television. Instead, he read books, he walked, he worked, and, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he was temporarily hiding from the world.

Something inside of him had broken, and he wasn’t sure he had the will to try to fix it. He was sorry to have drifted away from Sherlock, wasn’t even certain why they’d stopped talking, but it seemed far too overwhelming to try to patch up whatever had fallen apart. Sherlock was difficult, volatile, complicated, and somewhere John’s energy for all that had been drained.

Not that he was ready to fade into a slow suburban death. Some part of him yearned for change, for a different challenge, a different environment. Maybe he should volunteer for a medical mission overseas. _Maybe if Sherlock had ever acknowledged_ \-- never mind. Too much water under the bridge. Too many mistakes.

**********

  
John looked out the window of his flat, squinted at the sky. It looked like it might snow. He turned back to the sitting room, the Christmas card he intended to send to Harry still blank. There wasn’t much to tell her, but he felt obliged to reach out to his one remaining family member. He sat down on the sofa to try again, knocking the coffee table with his knee, sending the pen skittering onto the floor where it rolled under the sofa.

He sighed, getting down on all fours to cast a hand under the heavy piece of furniture. God, it was dusty. He really should clean more often. He stretched his arm as far back as it could go, his fingers scrabbling against the edge of something. He pulled it out -- a strange little packet of paper. Mystified, he unfolded it, a key dropping out onto the floor in front of him. What the hell...? How long had it been there?

He then saw the short note -- hastily scrawled handwriting he recognized instantly.

_I can’t take back what’s yours. It belongs to you. Always has._

John picked up the key, turning it in his fingers as he read the note again and again.


	6. Chapter 6

The windows of the Baker Street flat were dark, making the street seem even colder in the evening light. John made up his mind, walked up to the familiar door, slipped in the key, turned it the way he’d done so many times before. He went in, taking a moment to pull off his gloves as he looked up the stairs. He hadn’t been here for half a year, maybe longer.

No use hesitating. He went up the steps, every creak a memory, then walked through the half-open door to the flat. More memories. He looked around, knew Sherlock wasn’t in, the place feeling unnaturally empty.

He switched on a lamp, slowly walked across the sitting room, glanced into the kitchen and down the hallway. He finally took a seat in his old chair, still placed in the same spot. His fingers curled around the arm of the chair, feeling the fabric, the skull on the mantle leering down at him.

John took it all in, feeling half at home, half estranged. Something was different… It was -- he turned to look back at the kitchen again to confirm this -- tidy. Unusually so. Granted, the desk was a bit messy with stacks of papers, but everything else… Curious, he went to the fridge, pulled it open. No visible body parts. A bit of actual food. And milk.

No dirty dishes in the sink. No chemicals on the table, the microscope arranged neatly to the side. He stared in wonderment when he heard footsteps, then saw the very surprised face of Mrs. Hudson. She let out a small squeak before rushing over to capture him in a tight hug.

They sat at the kitchen table in 221B catching up over tea and biscuits, finally getting around to the subject of Sherlock. “He’ll be sorry to have missed you,” Mrs. Hudson said. “He’s gone off to spend Christmas with his parents.”

John nearly choked on his tea. “Seriously?”

“His mother insisted,” she said. “And there’s no arguing with her, especially after what happened last Christmas. Oh, sorry...”

John waved away her apology, just wanting to skip over those memories of Magnussen and the shooting and the tarmac.

“I’m off to my sister’s tomorrow,” Mrs Hudson said, changing the subject. “What are your plans for the holidays?”

“Just going to visit an old friend,” John answered vaguely.

She nodded, suddenly looking a bit gloomy. “It’s none of my business, but what happened between you and Sherlock? We never see you.”

John looked to the side, shrugged. “I dunno, we just sort of… “ he opened his hands in a gesture of emptiness, “fell out of touch.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a calculating look. “But you’re here now.”

“I found my old flat key the other day. I guess I was curious.” He stirred his tea unnecessarily. “How is he?”

She pursed her lips, considering her words. “He’s doing well, actually. He had us all worried there for a while, though, went through a bit of a rough patch… But he pulled himself together. I don’t know what it was, but it’s like a switch flipped and he just went back to work and didn’t look back. Oh, he still smokes too much and is in and out at all hours and doesn’t eat enough… Although he can make a really lovely omelet, did you know that?” She looked around with a small sigh. “He’s not nearly as helpless as he’d like us to believe. He’s just lazy. But I don’t even have to clean up after him like I used to.”

“Really?” John found this very surprising indeed. He ran his finger along the deep scratch in the table, recalling how annoyed he’d been the day he discovered it. There was no use trying to be delicate about his next question. “Is he… seeing anybody?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “Clients are always coming and going. And who knows what he really does at all those odd hours?”

“Hmm,” John answered quietly. “I never knew what he was really thinking.”

He looked up when Mrs. Hudson let out a disbelieving laugh. “And you’re an open book, are you?” She directed a stern gaze at him over the rim of her teacup. “Honestly, you two are the most stubborn fools I’ve ever met.” She stopped, agitated. “Just pick up the bloody phone and talk to him.”

“And say what?”

She turned her eyes to him again, her expression a mix of exasperation and sadness. “Oh, John… wake up.”

John felt his face flush, suddenly irked with her, but she pressed on. “I’m sorry, but I’ve just got to say this. You were both so much better off when you lived here together. And now -- apart -- you’re both fine, going through the motions, but neither of you seems particularly happy.”

“Mrs. Hudson --” John put up a hand to stop her, and she fell silent, frowning into her tea.

“Call him,” she said in one last plea.

John traced the scratch in the table again without replying.

Later, after she had gone, John wandered through the flat once more, peering into his old room, unused and sparsely furnished, then went down to the sitting room again. He looked at the closed door of Sherlock’s bedroom. He found himself walking toward it, laid his hand lightly on the door knob. He gave it a tentative turn, and it easily gave way, unlocked.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. It was also quite tidy. He stood, breathing in the still air that held wisps of cigarette smoke and soap and the complexities of bergamot rising from Earl Grey tea, and was struck with a sudden pang of missing Sherlock.

He remained lost in thought until his eyes landed on a suit jacket tossed across a chair. So he still had that bad habit of not hanging up clothes. John walked over to the jacket and picked it up, feeling the soft weight and fine texture in his hands. Without thinking, he held it to his nose for a moment, breathing in again. _Dammit…_

John shook himself, opened the wardrobe to find a hanger. His eye was caught by an unusual color -- a pale green shirt. Sherlock never wore anything like that. He moved the collar slightly with his finger to see the tag. Hand-tailored in Hong Kong. Not his size. Not his shirt. Nor was the expensive dove grey shirt and dark suit coat beside it.

He quickly hung up Sherlock’s jacket and shut the door again. As he passed the bathroom he couldn’t help but look into the cabinet above the sink. A razor and aftershave that were unfamiliar. _Jesus… Who did this belong to?_

He felt faintly ill. He had to leave. John hurriedly switched off the lights and left the flat, glad for the blast of cold air that greeted him outside. _So there was somebody... somebody very intimate…_ He walked quickly, turning his coat collar up against the wind.


	7. Chapter 7

The fire was dying in the grate, and John stretched his legs out to the last of the heat. It was nearing midnight, and his eyes were heavy after a big meal and several large drinks.

James sat in the chair opposite, an empty brandy snifter in his hand. "I'm done in," he announced, stretching his back before standing up. He laid his hand on John’s shoulder as he passed by. “Coming up?”

John’s phone unexpectedly buzzed on the side table. "I'll be up soon," he said while reaching for his phone. It was probably some poor sod on night duty at the clinic sending out an updated schedule. He glanced at the screen, the short message taking a moment to sink in.

_Merry xmas_

It was from Sherlock. He swallowed, caught off guard. He typed a cautious reply.

_Merry Christmas_

He thought for a moment after sending it, adding a follow-up question.

_Holiday sentiment?_

There was a brief pause before the reply.

_Must be the wine._

John smiled, then hesitated. He ought to say something about the key… He typed another line.

_I found the flat key you returned. It got misplaced for a long while._

There was no immediate reply, so John typed more.

_I stopped by. I saw Mrs. Hudson and the flat. It looked different._

_You mean it’s clean._

          _Yes. Very surprising._

      _New theory. Organized environment = organized thoughts. Bit tedious._

_Mrs. H said you’re doing well._

_Well enough. And you?_

_Good. The same._

There was another long pause. John waited, not realizing he was holding his breath.

      _Take care, John._

He felt disappointed, not sure what he expected. He reluctantly ended the exchange.

          _You too._

John gripped the phone, pressing his knuckles against his mouth, staring into the dying embers, struggling to understand what it was he really wanted.

**********

The phone was warm in Sherlock’s hand even though the screen had gone black. He let his head drop back against the headboard, his knees drawn up as he sat on the bed in his childhood room. He’d had a few drinks, and, as John had surmised, had veered into sentimentality.

He gazed at the shelves of books, the rafters overhead. He hadn’t meant to cut short the conversation, but he hadn’t been prepared for the rush of emotions that overcame him when he thought about John being in the flat again.

A hand curved around his waist, startling him, a sleepy voice asking, “What time is it?”

Sherlock pulled himself back with effort and checked his watch. “A little after midnight.”

He closed his eyes as fingers skimmed down his arm then reached for the phone, taking it from his hands. He felt the bed shift as the phone was placed on the side table, then lips on his neck, a whisper in his ear. “Always working...”

The hand moved lower, past his stomach, under the waistband of his pajamas, fingers teasing, coaxing. Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Victor--”

Just as he had at university, Victor Trevor was now distracting him. They had unexpectedly reconnected a few months ago after Victor sent him a breezy message saying he was back in London for work. Victor traveled extensively, having inherited his father’s business holdings while still a very young man. That twist of fate had effectively ended their experimental university relationship; Victor had been quickly pulled into adult responsibilities, while Sherlock slid into less reputable habits.

Something of a spark was still there, though, and Sherlock had allowed Victor back into his life, and, even more uncharacteristically, into his bed. He was, he supposed, tired of being alone. Victor was smart, dry humored, and frequently away on business, all of which made him a suitable occasional companion. They saw each other three or four times a month, in between trips and cases and meetings and murders. It was a diversion, a small hiatus from solitude.

Although he prefered to keep their… arrangement, whatever it was... private, Sherlock had let Victor talk him into coming along to his parents’ house for Christmas. Victor had no family of his own and found the idea of a cozy holiday rather exotic. For Sherlock, it was easier to face the visit with a charming shield like Victor.

Sherlock ignored Mycroft’s raised eyebrows when he introduced Victor as an old friend from uni. Later, away from the others, his father had delicately inquired after John’s well-being. What had he even told him?

The thought was cut off when Victor’s mouth descended over his, and he found himself responding despite his confusion about John. They were both a bit drunk, and Victor’s body was warm and his hands were pulling down his pajamas and the bedsprings squeaked as Victor moved between his thighs and maybe they should stop but -- _oh, god, that felt good…_

Sherlock bit his lip, trying to stifle a groan.

“Shhh,” Victor looked up at him with a gleam in his eye. “Try not to wake the whole house.”

_Try not to wake the ghosts. Forget… forget…_


	8. Chapter 8

It was spring and Sherlock stood by the music stand near the window, concentrating on tuning his violin. Victor sat at the desk behind him typing rapidly on his laptop, firing off messages to India or China or wherever he was heading for the next three months. There was an unpleasant tension in the air.

Earlier that morning Sherlock had told him about his own upcoming trip. “Trip” sounded so much more palatable than “assignment.” Mycroft had another job for him, starting somewhere in Eastern Europe, then going wherever the trail led. He didn’t know how long he’d be away. Months, probably. Which had brought things round to a conversation he really didn’t want to have, but it was unavoidable.

He had sketched out the situation for Victor, who sat up in the bed, his hair disheveled. “So I’m off to Asia tomorrow, and you’re going on some trip you won’t even tell me about and have no idea when you’re coming back? I mean, that’s a bit overly secretive, isn’t it?”

“No,” Sherlock answered evenly. “It’s freelance work, and the less you know, the better.”

Victor shook his head in disbelief. “So you’re implying it’s dangerous?”

Sherlock looked at him blankly, feeling millions of miles beyond Victor’s quaint shock at the idea of danger. For Victor, a laptop battery dying on an eight-hour flight was a crisis. A missed phone call to an associate in Tokyo was a disaster. Anything that endangered the precious flow of money back to his business was a menace.

A gun at your temple, a knife in your ribs, now that was cause for alarm. Victor had his charms and talents, fiduciary and otherwise, but he was not cut out for the gritty realities of crime work. They had come to a natural junction where their lives were diverging again, and it was time to acknowledge that fact.

Sherlock spoke out loud before he had a chance to consider softening his words. “I think it’s advisable that we end this, then.”

Victor’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck. Then his eyes turned dark. “You always were direct.”

 _Always saying too much or too little, never finding the right words._ Sherlock sighed. He actually liked Victor, but knew there was no future in it. “What I do for a living isn’t exactly conducive to a normal life. I can’t change that.”

Victor evaluated him for several seconds. “You could change it if you really wanted to.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. "I’d just find some way to fuck it up.”

Victor didn’t return the smile. “If that’s your choice, you’re going to be a very lonely man, Sherlock.” He got up and left the bedroom, and Sherlock sank back against the pillows, feeling empty.

Now he held the violin, watching Victor from the corner of his eye as he closed the laptop and gathered up his belongings. _This is what John did to you. Pushed you away with no real explanation._ Sherlock felt a pang of guilt; he ought to say something more. “Victor… I’m sorry…” he started, not sure what else to add.

Victor turned to him. “No, you’re right. We’re on very different paths. We’re not even going to be on the same continent. I understand. I just make deals and move numbers around -- you’ve got secrets wrapped within secrets…” He stepped closer, speaking softly. “I suppose that’s part of the attraction. I know this was supposed to be a friends-with-benefits situation, not anything serious… but I was growing rather fond of you.” He touched Sherlock’s lower lip with his index finger, letting it linger for a moment before dropping his hand. “A damned shame, really.”

Sherlock met his gaze, momentarily wishing he could choose a different life, knowing it would fail.

Victor picked up his things. “Good luck, Sherlock,” he said, heading to the door. “You know how to reach me… in case you ever need your portfolio rebalanced.” He gave him a half smile and left. Sherlock watched him from the window as he hailed a cab, climbed in, and drove off.

He placed the violin gently back in its case, closed the lid, and clicked the latches shut. He straightened a few stacks of papers, washed up two cups, sorted through the mail. Organized environment, organized mind.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Seven months later** _

Sherlock cursed the cast on his wrist for the thousandth time as it caught in his sleeve when he pulled his coat off. His back and ribs still ached, the stitches above his eye were tight and itchy.

He’d been flown out of Moscow a week ago after a sound beating by two large and angry men. It was a stupid miscalculation on his part. He’d gotten a bit overconfident, tried to bluff his way into the very private residence of crime boss whom he suspected had ties to Moriarty’s old network. He'd managed to limp away with a broken wrist, a fractured rib, and numerous other injuries. Not his proudest moment, being medevaced out, but he had been too tired to fight it. He’d completed 99 percent of the assignment, now someone else could clean up the remaining 1 percent.

He never used to think like that, letting a job go unfinished, but after months of skulking around the globe, he was ready to be in one place again. It seemed like he’d trailed through every country that lacked sunlight -- cool, cloudy, rainy places -- and even though it was late autumn in London with a chill in the air, his own bed was a warm sanctuary he’d often daydreamed about while sleeping in cheap hostels or dozing upright on trains or waiting in cafes.

At the moment, he was in the empty morgue at St. Bart’s, hoping to catch Molly Hooper on her break. He’d had an idea while recuperating on the sofa the other day, now needed to procure a few parts to carry out an experiment. He took a seat on a lab stool to wait. He was still jet-lagged, exhausted, unused to being on his own schedule again. He laid his head down on his good arm atop the workbench surface, planning to close his eyes for just a second, and instead fell fast asleep.

He didn’t hear the door open when Molly and John walked into the room. They both stopped short, beyond surprised to see Sherlock draped over the benchtop as if he were a student sleeping in the library.

John glanced at Molly and she shrugged, equally baffled. He took a few steps forward and gripped the edge of the worktop, not quite believing his eyes. He quietly pulled another stool to the table and seated himself. He would wait.

Molly stepped softly around John, picked up a folder, and handed it to him. He nodded in thanks and she glanced at Sherlock again, then gave John’s shoulder a little squeeze before leaving them alone.

John gazed at the dark curls, not yet seeing the cast or stitches, trying to remember the last time he’d seen Sherlock. A year and a half ago? They’d texted last Christmas, once or twice after that, then a short message from Sherlock saying he’d be traveling for a while. John knew what that meant, and wasn’t surprised that he heard nothing more. And so their tentative communication had ceased again.

He let out a small exhalation, then flipped open the folder and sorted through the stack of photos he had requested from Molly. It was a graphic catalog of wounds collected from the unfortunate residents of the morgue. So many unhappy endings....

John looked up when Sherlock finally stirred. He slowly straightened his back, his hand going to his side as he winced. Then his eyes landed on John.

They looked at each other in silence as John gradually took in the fading bruises, the stitches, the cast. Sherlock’s expression shifted from startled to intense focus to a half smile, noting John’s tanned face and sun-bleached hair. “You’ve been abroad again.”

“And it looks like you got the shit beat out of you.”

Sherlock winced again as he shifted in his chair. “Occupational hazard. I was outnumbered.” He paused, considering. “Where were you? Not Afghanistan again…”

“Next door. Pakistan. I just finished a six-month stint with with a medical NGO. And I’m assuming you can’t tell me where you were.”

Sherlock let John’s last remark pass by. “Pakistan. Not the safest choice you could have made.” He looked pointedly at John, then at the photographs. “Starting a collection?”

John’s hand went to the pictures. “Mike Stamford asked me to help out with a course on trauma and emergency care. Thought some visual aids would help. Let the students know what they’re really in for.”

They fell silent again. Sherlock simultaneously felt that mere minutes and a century had passed since they’d last seen each other. His heart was beating quickly, he realized. He had thought about John often, yet had done his best to distance himself, managing to lock his feelings behind a tightly sealed door for the past year.

“It’s good to see you, John,” he finally said, wishing he had something more clever to say. But it was the truth, stark and simple.

“You too,” John answered, conscious that they were almost echoing their words from last Christmas.

 _Don’t end the conversation yet, not this time,_ Sherlock thought desperately. “I probably owe you a coffee,” he ventured.

John stacked the photos and closed them into the folder, allowing a smile. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you do.”

**********

They went to a nearby coffee shop and talked into the evening, filling in some gaps and skirting around others.

John eventually leaned forward as he toyed with a sugar packet. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever found out anything… about Mary.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I thought there might be some trace, but no.”

“I didn’t really think you would. Sometimes I just wonder…” John twisted the packet into a tight ball, then dropped it into his saucer. “Never mind.”

Sherlock knew John was really thinking about the child. He had mastered enough restraint not to say it, but he had serious doubts that the baby had really been John’s. There was no way to prove anything, so he changed the topic again. “Where are you staying?”

John took a last swallow of lukewarm coffee. “At the moment, on Stamford’s sofa. I just got back about two weeks ago, been lining up some work again so I can get my own place.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock waited a beat. “I happen to know of a room that’s available in central London. The flatmate’s a bit of a dick, but the rent’s reasonable.”

John looked up at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Sherlock glanced away, suddenly feeling exposed. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would be delighted to have you back.”

The sound of clinking dishes and chatter filled in around them as John tightened his hands on his empty coffee mug.

“Do you still have the key?” Sherlock didn’t know why he felt compelled to ask that. His head was starting to hurt, and he rubbed his temple lightly near the stitches.

John’s tapped his fingers on the outside of his cup. “I still have it.”

“I meant it,” Sherlock said quietly. “It’s yours.”

John met Sherlock’s gaze briefly before sliding his eyes away. He rubbed his jaw, taking his time in answering. “I’m not really in a position to pass up such a good offer,” he admitted. “Plus, Mike’s brother is coming to visit him soon, so I’d best get out of the way before he arrives.”

A weight lifted from Sherlock’s shoulders. _He’s coming back..._ He nodded once. “Good, then it’s settled.”


	10. Chapter 10

When Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson about John’s return, she set about cleaning his old room with a slightly alarming exuberance. Sherlock stopped listening as she continued to offer countless variations on how delighted she was that John was moving back.

Several more days passed, and Sherlock was seated at his desk working on his laptop, still cursing the cast, when there was a soft knock on the door to the flat. He glanced up disinterestedly, expecting to see Mrs. Hudson with the tea tray, but it was John.

Sherlock’s fingers stilled over the keyboard.

“I let myself in,” John explained. “Hope that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

“I brought some things over,” John stepped into the room to stand behind his old chair, letting his hands rest across the top.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I’m traveling light these days. I have a few things stored with a friend that I’ll get later.”

 _Friend... James Sholto?_ Sherlock pushed the thought from his mind.

John saw a flicker of irritation cross Sherlock’s face. “Right, well, I’ll let you get back to work.” John turned to leave, and was immediately swept up by Mrs. Hudson.

That little reunion would take a while. Sherlock turned his attention back to the inordinate amount of messages that had built up in his inbox, deleting most, saving a few for possible follow-up.

When he looked up again, he realized quite some time had passed and the room had grown dark. He went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea, then stood by the window, contemplating a few of the more intriguing cases that had come in. Not that he was quite ready to start back in on work yet. His wrist still ached, as did his side with the fractured rib. He rubbed distractedly at his forehead again.

“Headache?”

Sherlock looked up, caught off guard by John, who had just entered the kitchen carrying his battered coffee mug. Sherlock watched as he placed it on the shelf where it had been kept years ago.

“No, not a headache,” Sherlock finally answered, momentarily lost in the past. “It’s just these damned stitches.”

“Let me have a look.” John pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

Sherlock did as instructed. John lightly touched his jaw, angling his face up to the light for a better view. “Those are ready to come out,” he said. “No wonder they’re bothering you.”

John’s fingertips remained in place as he continued to scrutinize the sutures. “I’ve sewn up plenty of bar brawl injuries like this. Any vision problems in that eye?”

Sherlock was distracted, acutely aware of John’s proximity. “No,” he managed to answer.

After another long moment, John took a step back. “I can take the stitches out for you now, if you want. Save you a trip.”

Sherlock swallowed, his throat dry. “That’d be fine.”

“I’ll go get my kit.” John returned in a few minutes with a box of medical supplies, took out a pair of small scissors and tweezers. He washed his hands and turned back to Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, and John tilted his head up again.

“This healed well,” John commented softly as he worked. “Won’t leave much of a mark.”

Sherlock felt a small tug as the first suture was pulled taut, released with a snip of the scissors, and removed completely with another slow pull. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t a particularly pleasant sensation, either. He focused instead on John’s throat, noticing that his tanned skin appeared to continue well past his collar.

_Tug._

He breathed in the clean scent of the soap on John’s hands, watched the cords in John’s neck move as he shifted for a better angle.

_Snip. Tug._

Sherlock involuntarily closed his eyes as John moved to the last few stitches just above his eyebrow. John’s hands were warm, his body a solid presence in the flat that had felt too empty for too long.

_Tug._

John slowly drew out the last suture, breathing out a “There...” in concentration. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, heard the metal tools being set on the table, then felt John’s fingers sweep over the thin scar as if smoothing it away. John’s hand stilled, lingering near his temple. Neither man moved.

Sherlock hardly dared to exhale, not wanting to shatter the moment. He felt John’s fingertips lightly trace along his hairline, and he opened his eyes, meeting John’s gaze. His expression was inscrutable again, not quite distant but not inviting, almost melancholy, as if he were remembering something long ago and lost.

It was full of pain, that look, and Sherlock wanted to vanquish it, heal it. He unthinkingly pressed his good hand against John’s chest, moved it up to his shoulder, and rose slowly from the chair to meet him as he drew him closer. He slid his palm behind John’s neck, fingers gripping tight, their foreheads now nearly touching, both breathing shallowly, each held back by a conflicted tangle of yearning and hesitation, waiting achingly for a decision.

Sherlock broke first, leaning in closer, his lips hovering over John’s, then ghosting across his mouth in a soft caress, an unspoken confession. His lips parted slightly to cover John’s, closing gently around his lower lip until he felt John inhale. He wanted to feel John do that again, wanted to hear him draw in his breath, a catch in his throat.

He kissed John again as if drinking him in, the thumb of his uninjured hand angling beneath John’s jaw, the fingers of his casted hand resting lightly on his neck. He sensed something dissolving in John, a fought-for control disintegrating as John’s hands trailed up his back.

John’s fingers tightened on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and they deepened the contact, senses narrowed to a glimpse of dark lashes, a rasp of stubble, a tracing of tongues, another sultry gentle bite on a bottom lip.

Sherlock finally pulled back, his heart pounding, wondering if he’d gone too far. They’d only just met again; perhaps he’d read too much into John’s actions. “Maybe we... I… should stop,” he offered in a low voice, giving John an out.

John’s eyes were downcast, his fingers still digging into the base of Sherlock’s skull. He took a ragged breath before looking up, his eyes falling to Sherlock’s mouth. His words came out in a rasp. “Don’t stop.”


	11. Chapter 11

John had not anticipated this would happen. Mere days ago he was still trying to re-orient himself after being abroad. He’d stripped away all unnecessary things in Pakistan, simply living day to day, focusing on the job. Hell, he’d been living like a monk for more than half a year, rarely drinking, celibate by choice. He just wasn’t interested in any sort of complication. Austerity had allowed him to clear his head and finally recenter himself.

And then his stint with the NGO ended and he found himself back in London, starting all over again -- no flat, no job, a miniscule bank balance, few possessions. He was just getting his feet under him when he met Sherlock again, and suddenly he was moving back into Baker Street, and now, like lightning, things had just escalated beyond imagination, starting with the most goddamned sensuous kiss he’d ever had in his life.

There were depths of meaning in that kiss that instantly raked up the hot coals of a fire he thought he’d managed to put out long ago. He let it take hold, let Sherlock burn a trail with his mouth down his neck, let his desire be reignited. He wanted to give in to it and be consumed, wanted to stop being haunted by the years of doubt and stoicism and misery. And if it was a mistake... so be it, at least he’d get it out of his system, be able to put it to bed at long last.

To bed. That’s exactly where their feet had led them, a slow progression down the dim hallway, gradually heating to a hard-kissing, hip-boned press against the wall, fingers grasping into waists and arses until they finally tumbled onto the duvet. John slipped a hand under the now-loose tails of Sherlock’s shirt, ran his fingers up his back, briefly stilling, then touching again with more focus. Something wasn’t right.

“Your back… What happened?” John asked, his mood shifting to one of concern.

Sherlock answered with one word. “Serbia.”

Sensing a granted permission, John undid the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, slid the sleeve off one shoulder and arm. He gazed silently at the marks on Sherlock’s back, ran a finger gingerly over a long welt, whispered, “Oh, Jesus...”

He knew the story behind the bullet wound on Sherlock’s chest, of course, but these scars, the cast, the stitches, the large mottled bruise covering one side of Sherlock’s rib cage… John realized he had no true understanding of what Sherlock did during his long absences. He knew the realities of his own exiles -- blood and boredom alternating with chaos and routine -- all for the sake of adrenaline, of feeling something real. But this… How had he not known about this?

John brushed his mouth against Sherlock’s, murmuring, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” There was so much he didn’t know, but he wanted to find out, starting now. He lifted the collar away from Sherlock’s other shoulder, peeled the sleeve over the cast, letting the shirt fall to the floor.

Sherlock reached for John’s t-shirt, pulling it over his head, discarding it to the side. He placed a hand on John’s chest, pale slender fingers splayed over tanned skin. They breathed slowly, drawing out the contact, taking in the contrast of light against dark.

John was pushed back into the pillows as Sherlock leaned into him again, claiming his mouth, pressing against him, their bare skin hot as they rolled onto their sides, Sherlock’s injured wrist resting just above John’s hip.

“This bloody cast…” Sherlock muttered, lightly biting his way down John’s neck.

“It’s fine,” John gasped, far too distracted to notice anything else. He arched into Sherlock when he reached the hollow at the base of his throat, arched again when a thumb swirled over a nipple, soon peaked and slicked by Sherlock’s tongue.

Their hands worked at pushing off their remaining clothing, their palms and mouths running over the curves and valleys of arms and chests and backs and thighs, fingers exploring bony ridges, firm muscle, soft skin, hard cocks.

They wound together, hips rocking slowly, their breath a shared panting with every teasing thrust. John felt a groan escape his throat, his hands cupping Sherlock’s arse as they moved against each other. God, he wanted to feel more of him, all of him, everywhere. As if reading his mind, Sherlock whispered into his ear, his words husky, deep. “I want to fuck.”

John was momentarily stunned.... This, after years of stilted or non-existent communication, was the most direct, intimate thing Sherlock had ever said to him. The rawness of the words surprised him, coming from the man who had for so long claimed to disown the body, placing brainwork above all else.

They weren't the same people who lived here before, John realized. Time and circumstance had changed them both. John felt a strange sense of relief rising up in his chest, making him want to laugh at the absurdity of how long it had taken them to finally reach this point. He smiled to himself, seizing the moment, burying his fingers into Sherlock's hair, sighing out, “God, yes. Let’s fuck.” Top, bottom, he didn’t care as long as he could finally be with him completely.

They kissed hungrily through a haze of hot breath, cold lube, warm fingers. John turned over, felt Sherlock’s hand trailing down his spine then grasping his hip as he gradually eased into him. _Goddamn…_

John breathed in the scent of the sheets warmed by body heat, his eyes squeezed shut, giving himself over to the moment as Sherlock moved, slowly mapping his body. John bit his lip, lowered his head, his own small groans amplified in his ears. He felt Sherlock’s firm grip, an occasional rough brush of the cast against his side, his fingers digging into the mattress, losing himself. The headboard creaked in a steadily mounting rhythm, the world outside the bedroom forgotten.

Sherlock's hand slid to the base of John’s throat just above his sternum, holding him tight, John’s breath forced out in short bursts as he drove into him. John was nearing the edge, head arched up, his mind ragged, his palm wrapping around his straining cock until he came with a hoarse gasp.

Sherlock sank into him once more with a moan, clasping him as if their entire bodies might merge. He felt Sherlock shudder, riding out the final waves draped over his back, rocking into him as he pressed his mouth against the scar on his shoulder. Finally spent, they melted back into the mattress, slick with sweat and come, hearts hammering against their chests.

They lay entwined, Sherlock curved behind John, his lips against his neck, saying nothing. The moment was too fragile to speak, best left to skin and bones to commune. Their rapid breathing gradually slowed, rising and falling in a shared rhythm, lulling John into a rare sense of calm. His eyes grew heavy, then closed, overtaken by sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

John woke early, the bedroom bathed in weak morning light. He stirred, his head immediately filling with memories from last night. He propped himself up on one elbow, peeking over Sherlock’s shoulder. He was still asleep, one fist tucked under his chin, the other arm flung out in front of him in the unyielding cast.

John quietly left the bed and slipped into Sherlock’s blue dressing gown. He moved about, glad to have a few minutes to himself. He made tea, then brought the cups to the bedroom. He set them on the side table before tossing the robe aside and climbing under the covers again, resting his back against the headboard.

He sipped from his mug, letting his gaze linger on Sherlock’s unguarded face, taking in every angle and line. He could see the very first glints of silver starting at the sides of Sherlock’s hair, and it tugged unexpectedly at his heart. Years… they had wasted precious years apart, stumbling around each other, never quite connecting through all the missed opportunities, misunderstandings, and mistakes.

His settled back against the pillow, his eyes falling on the wardrobe, and he suddenly remembered the stranger’s shirts he’d seen hanging there. He hadn’t thought to ask if there was still someone else. There hadn’t been time, it all happened so quickly.

Just then Sherlock stretched, his eyes gradually opening and finding John.

“Good morning,” John said softly.

”Good morning,” Sherlock replied sleepily, turning so their legs touched. The room was cool, everything under the sheets was warm. Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position and took the steaming mug John offered him.

John pointed at the cast on his wrist. “Everything all right?”

Sherlock flexed his fingers. “A bit sore, but worth it.”

“I could say the same thing,” John grinned, his heart doing a little flip at the sight of Sherlock’s crooked smile. John decided to be direct with his next question, not wanting to draw it out any longer. “Can I ask you something?”

Sherlock nodded.

“We didn’t really discuss this, but is there anyone…” He cleared his throat, then forged ahead. “Are you still involved with someone, because we should just be clear about that.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows over the rim of his cup. “ _Still_ involved? What makes you think that there ever was anyone?”

John knew he was going to have to admit his trespassing. “When I was here at Christmas last year, visiting with Mrs. Hudson, I sort of… looked around the flat. I saw some things that weren’t yours, so I assumed….”

Sherlock sighed. “There was someone for a short while. Someone I knew from university. But it ended months ago.”

John waited, but Sherlock didn’t offer any other details. Feeling a bit piqued, John elaborated for him. “Someone wealthy, I gather. A banker? I noticed he had an excellent tailor.”

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s impressively observant of you.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “And in return, I have to inquire about you and James Sholto.”

John looked at Sherlock in surprise, then became more subdued. “I should have guessed you’d know about that.” He looked down, gathering his thoughts before speaking. “It’s complicated. James was having some health issues, and came to London regularly for treatment. I was helping him through all that. Not as a physician, but as a friend.”

Sherlock looked at him, sensing something else. “Just a friend…?”

John picked at the bedcover, feeling the need to speak freely after so many years of silence. “We have a long history, James and I. We understand one another.” He paused, then continued. “Once we started seeing each other again, something gradually developed...”

Sherlock listened silently, then finally spoke. “Is that why you returned the key?”

John nodded slowly. “Having that key was a constant temptation… I was being pulled in too many directions, and I thought if I could just eliminate something, it would help to clarify everything else. So I gave it back. It worked for a little while, cutting myself off from this place, but I kept thinking about it... about you.” He shrugged, his eyes traveling around the room. “I realized I was happiest living in this shabby flat solving crimes with an ex-junkie consulting detective. With James… it was too isolated. I found out I can’t live that far removed from the world. But I didn’t want to get involved with all this again… and risk losing you again."

Sherlock lowered his eyes, knowing he could never adequately say how sorry he was for all his transgressions. He took the cup from John’s hands and set the mugs aside, then moved closer, wrapping himself around John as they sank back down into the mattress. "I'm not going anywhere."

John absently played with the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, wishing he could believe that. They both knew the Work would eventually call him away again. But John would take this second with Sherlock, and the next and the next, greedily holding on to as much as he could for as long as he could.

John tilted Sherlock's chin up, placed a soft kiss on his lips, falling dangerously deep into those mesmerizing eyes.

“Are you hungry?” John finally asked, feeling the need to lighten the mood, thinking of breakfast.

“Starving,” Sherlock answered, pulling John back down to his lips, not yet satisfied. John kissed him again, skimming his hand down Sherlock's arm, stopping to rest his palm on Sherlock’s side, his thumb stroking the taut skin beneath his hipbone. Sherlock pressed into him, wrapping his leg around John’s thigh, drawing him against the heat of his lower belly, making John instantly stiffen.

Their mouths met again, suddenly insatiable, their bodies warm, pliable, melding together.

“God, I want you,” John growled against Sherlock's neck, rolling him onto his back, straddling him, the length of his erection rubbing along Sherlock’s hardening cock. “I want to fill you up, make you forget that cast, forget those bruises, and fuck you so hard you forget your name.”

John felt the flutter of Sherlock’s eyelashes against his cheek, knew he’d silenced him a moment as he absorbed his words. But then Sherlock curved into him, grabbing his hair, dragging him back to his mouth. “Do it,” he half-dared, half-pleaded, his voice husky.

Breakfast was forgotten.


	13. Chapter 13

The snow drifted down in heavy white flakes, descending in slow swirls through the cold still night. John and Sherlock walked equally slowly along the pavement, the sounds of the city hushed under the fresh snowfall, the streets nearly empty at the late hour.

“Beautiful night,” John commented offhandedly, watching the snowflakes float under the light of a streetlamp. His eyes went to Sherlock's hand. “How's the wrist feeling?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock answered, giving it a few rotations. “Much better.”

“You're lucky your doctor agreed to remove the cast so late on Christmas Eve. Not many would do that.”

“I’m fortunate to have an excellent doctor.”

John smirked, hunching his shoulders deeper into his coat. “When did you tell your mum we’d be arriving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Just the two of us here for Christmas, then?”

"Right.” He gave John a knowing glance. “Thought we might stay in.”

As they neared the door on Baker Street, Sherlock began reaching into his pocket for his keys, then saw John already had his set in his hand. He suddenly flashed back to the day John returned his copy of the key to him, his stomach twisting at the memory. He watched now as John tugged off a glove and readied the key to fit into the lock.

 _Home. We’re both finally home where we belong,_ Sherlock thought, still somewhat in awe at what had transpired nearly a month ago. It sent a shiver up his spine, remembering their urgent need for each other, learning every slope and nook of their bodies, relishing every gasp and moan...

Sherlock impulsively stepped closer to John and turned him by the shoulders, pulled him to his chest, dipping down to cover his mouth with a deep kiss. John was taken by surprise -- Sherlock never displayed any sign of affection in public.

“What was that for?” John finally asked, a bit breathless.

“You. Everything. You being here,” Sherlock answered disjointedly, his arms going around John, their lips meeting again, this time slower, cold noses touching, snowflakes melting on their eyelashes, a white dusting gathering on their hair and shoulders.

They eventually unlocked the door, shook off their heavy coats, made their way up the stairs. They closed the door to the flat behind them, the fairy lights strung over the fireplace mantel casting a cozy glow in the room. They toed off their shoes, twined onto the sofa, cold droplets of melted snow falling from their hair onto cheeks and necks.

Sherlock worked his hands under John’s shirt, causing John to curse softly. “Shit… Your hands are freezing,” he chided.

Sherlock silenced him with another kiss, was kind enough to wait until his hands had warmed several more degrees before sliding them to John’s belt, tugging at the buckle until it came apart with a satisfying metallic clink. He pulled down the zip and slipped his long fingers beneath the denim of John’s jeans.

John sighed, giving into the wonderful things those fingers could do. They sank deeper into the corner of the sofa, in no hurry, nuzzling, stroking, undoing a button here and there, tasting the warm skin underneath.

John ran a thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone, their eyes meeting, John gazing at him with open adoration. Sherlock was suddenly flooded with a happiness so intense that he felt as if his chest might burst, causing him to look away.

 _Tell him now,_ the whisper urged. _Don’t wait any longer._

“John…” Sherlock started. He looked up, saw John watching him, waiting. “There’s something I should have told you long ago.” He hesitated, unnerved, and he glanced away again. The words were forming in his throat, taking on a force of their own, now poised at the tip of his tongue, waiting for the courage to set them free. He took a breath, made the leap. “I would do anything for you.” He took another small breath. “I love you. Immeasurably.”

John’s face shifted rapidly through a dozen expressions before his mouth curved into a stunned smile. He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, drawing him closer. “I love you, too,” he whispered through a soft kiss that dissolved into a ragged laugh, relief and long-repressed emotion surging through him. “Goddammit,” he breathed, his lips still on Sherlock’s, “I loved you the fucking second I laid eyes on you.”

John could feel Sherlock’s smile as they kissed again, letting this revelation sink in, the truth finally acknowledged, miraculously reciprocated.

“I want you to be happy,” Sherlock said, cupping John’s face, suddenly serious, doubting himself. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to make that happen.”

“You are,” John reassured him. “Nothing could make me happier than being with you. I’ve tried.”

Sherlock lowered his face against John’s neck, offering his own muffled confession. “I need you. I'm only half alive without you.”

“I know,” John answered, wrapping his arms around him. “I know.”

They lay wedged into the end of the sofa, Sherlock curled against John's chest. He could feel John’s heartbeat against his own ribs, and he breathed him in, wool and leather and warmth.

John placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s temple. “Let’s go to bed.”

He led Sherlock to the bedroom where they slowly undressed and slipped under the cool sheets. They nudged closer together, hands smoothing down each other’s backs, lips skimming in light caresses. “Merry Christmas,” John murmured, kissing the faint scar above Sherlock’s eye.

“I didn't get you a present,” Sherlock admitted.

“Doesn't matter," John traced his fingertips over the bullet wound on Sherlock’s chest.

“Tomorrow, we’ll sleep late, build a fire... I nicked an excellent wine from Mycroft's cellar.”

“Sounds perfect.” John lifted Sherlock's left hand, kissed the inside of his healed wrist.

They fell quiet, watching the snow drift past the window.

“John…”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and a special thanks to my regular readers. I started writing for my own pleasure again in 2014, so it's been great fun having a place to share all my whims. Happiest of holidays and peace to all.  
> \--Vee


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